Reviewed by Anna Scotti francine j. harris’s third collection, here is the sweet hand, is a messy compilation, a demonstration of the poet’s exhaustive
—for Lyn Hopper When I wake too early and hope and wait for more sleep, and dawn, a coyote, sneaks up on eloquent birds,
Spring again, and without discrimination, pollen lands on leaf, earth, house, truck and road, and I am off kilter with glory as it crowns
The first time I loved him, his exaggerated ears flattened as he peeked out the window pane. A robin pecked at bits and birdseed,